A Deadly Edge
by Dominae
Summary: She saved his life once; he is bound by honor and love to do the same, but the swing of a blade is not always easily parried. OC-centered. No Dragonborn here.


_An old jarl sat upon his lofty throne in the high halls, lamenting his bent body and gnarled hands. Long had it been since he had seen the ways of war, and he wearied of his decrepit state. _

"_By Shor," he cried, "how is it a kindness to ruin my body while a warrior's soul still burns bright within? If only I could fight once again, I would give all that the gods asked, even if they called for the strongest from my lands."_

_It preyed on his mind that he who had once been the most honored warrior in the Reach could be struck down, not by the wielded blade, but simply by the deadly edge of time. His sleep was fitful, denied as he was his right to be slain on the field of battle by another worthy warrior. In his despair, he turned to the unthinkable. Long had there been tales of a witch that dwelt in a cavern, far to the west. Desperate to reclaim that which had been lost, he once again donned his armor and retrieved his axe, dusty as they were from the long years that had neglected them. With doubt dwelling in his heart but hope shining in his eyes, he turned from his home and sought out the hag. He traveled for many days, crossing both dark forests and rushing rivers, seeing neither bandits nor bears in his travels. At last he reached the witch's lair, where blood stained the river's bank and the trees bore the skulls of the departed. _

_With an unsteady hand on his axe and dim eyes wary, he descended into the dank darkness and fetid air. Taproot cast the cave with pale green light, illuminating the severed heads of animals that served as macabre decorations. Though he readied himself for slaughter, no beasts howled, no spirits appeared. Only a hunched old woman stepped from the shadows. Her face was narrow and pinched, her nose hooked like the beak of a hawk. She wore threadbare, ill-fitting robes even as a gleaming black gem graced her sallow, wrinkled neck. _

"_Why does a jarl deign to visit with an old crone, hm? Have you come for blood, lord? Or...perhaps you have come to beg a favor." Her ebony-black eyes filled with mirth and her cracked lips stretched into a perverse smile. Then her voice cracked like a whip, demanding swift answer. "What say you, my honored guest?"_

_Though his heart cried out baleful warnings to him, his longing clouded his mind and silenced the doubts. _

"_I desire only to be able to fight again; to taste blood and feel the heat of battle. Grant me this, old one."_

_The green glow of the hanging taproot seemed to pulse; the rotten heads of the beasts seemed to shiver at his plea. The hag considered his words for a long moment before speaking once again._

"_Even a mighty jarl must pay a price for such magics."_

_His heart leaped with joy. Finally, he would have his glory restored to him!_

"_I shall pay whatever you wish, lest my ancestor refuse to open the gates of Sovngarde."_

_And the hag set upon him, revealing gleaming talons that slashed at his throat and released blood and soul. The jarl fell to the bestial witch, watching as his spirit was drawn into the black void of her gem. His eyes darkened, losing what little sight had remained. _

_When at last the deed was done, the hag poured his soul into the axe he had long carried, so that the jarl would forever know the ways of war. _

_**Note from the transcriber:** While many old legends have some grains of truth to them, the tale of the Jarl and the Hag is one of the few that seems to be more truth than lies. While it clearly has elements of a story meant to be told around a fire, namely the description of a hagraven, and seems to have some allegorical qualities, it also has parallels with historical events. Most Nords of Skyrim dismiss the idea of one of their jarls consorting with hagravens as preposterous, and yet the city of Markarth was once watched over by a jarl that vanished in his old age. Of course, the disappearance of a jarl, while rare, is not unheard of. What makes this particular jarl noteworthy is that the annals of the city mention he undertook a journey to the darkest of places, and was shortly after stricken of every honor and title he had ever been granted. Clearly, such a dishonor would only fall upon those who have committed a grave misstep. While this is still only speculation, it does lend an air of mystery to the tale._

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><p>"Fascinating, Edith. You have given me yet another reason to despise magic. Was this really worth you leaving your college? Or is it just an excuse to visit me?"<p>

Edith had been leaning forward, her blue eyes boring into his skull as he read, but now she sat back in her chair and crossed her arms in irritation. The flickering light and hazy smoke from the nearby fireplace made her expression difficult to read, but he thought he saw an unusual look of distress on her face.

"Please. I can barely stand this place even when I don't have to make a two-day journey to get here. Of course this important. This axe, the one you just read about...it exists. More than that, I think I have an idea of how to find out which cave it's in."

He slid the book across the wooden table back to her, careful to avoid the spill of ale some drunk had left behind.

"So?"

"So? So I intend to get the axe. Obviously."

He frowned at her and took a swig of mead. The inn's mead didn't have what he would call a good taste, but it burned going down and left a fire in the belly, and that was all that really mattered to him. He proffered the bottle to Edith.

"You know I don't drink, Mazorn."

"Really? I simply assumed you must have changed your mind, because you're clearly drunk if you think I'm going to let you run off and get yourself killed over some stupid legend."

She snorted at his words, as if they were the most absurd thing she'd ever heard.

"Why do you think I even told you about this? You're going with me."

He paused and stared at her, his hand still clutching the bottle to his lips.

"Now I know you're drunk."

Edith rolled her eyes and snatched the bottle from him, then put it down just out of reach.

"Listen to me, Orc. You swore an oath to come to my aid. I'd rather that you did this because you're my friend, but I will call you on it if I must."

He scowled and leaned over, purposefully taking the mead back. He took a long drink, maintaining eye contact until she looked away.

"Why is this so important to you, _Breton?" _Mazorn spat the word out venomously. By Malacath's mighty hammer, he adored the idiotic woman, but she could be a wretch when she desired it. "You've never had any interest in accompanying me on any of my expeditions before, and yet now you want to drag me along on one of your own? One that will probably end in a bloody death?"

She sighed heavily and rested her chin on her palm.

"I would have thought you'd be happy to meet a bloody death." Edith exhaled roughly and leaned forward, placing her hand on top of his. "I'm sorry. It's just...finding this axe would solve so many problems. And I know it will be dangerous. Please, Maz. I'm not going to be able to do this without you."

He turned his hand over and linked his fingers with hers, then gave a gentle squeeze.

"Fool woman. You know you only have to ask my assistance, if you're in true need. Tell me, though, what troubles do you have that only this axe can solve?"

Her hand was warm in his; her soft skin vastly different from his own calluses and scars. She looked at their joined hands and seemed to mull over a weighty decision. At last she came to a conclusion and spoke softly,

"You know Rosalind, of course. My sister?"

He thought back to the first time he'd met Edith. It was a blurry haze of pain, but he vaguely recalled a little face watching him with fear as his blood stained the floor and marked her sister's robes with crimson.

"I remember her, a bit. It's been a long time."

"Eight years. She's seen sixteen summers, now. And father intends to pay back our debts by giving her to the eldest of the Snow-Born clan. She says she will do what she has to. But I can't let her sell her life like that, Mazorn. I've met Osvald. He'd never raise a hand against her, but he's a philanderer and a drunkard. Rosa is the most passionate person I've ever known. This marriage would kill her as surely as an arrow to the heart."

"We all do what we must, Edith."

She pulled her hand away from his as if he'd burned her. Her face tightened with anger, and she gritted her teeth.

"That's precisely why I'm doing this."

"Do you truly think your sister would want you getting yourself killed to stop a marriage she's already agreed to? Do you think anyone does?"

"If people cared about what others wanted, I wouldn't have to." She rose from her chair and tossed a septim to the table. "That's all I can afford for the drinks. I'll be at the stables tomorrow morning to get a wagon to Markarth. With or without you."

Bright sunlight and a chill wind filled the inn as she strode out the door. Mazorn drained the last drop from his bottle and watched the septim as it stopped its long spin. The gold glinted in the firelight; it balanced, wavered and fell.

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><p><strong>AN: I don't write for reviews, but they are appreciated<strong>.


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